


Pulse

by obstinatrix



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-25
Updated: 2016-03-25
Packaged: 2018-05-29 00:23:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6351430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obstinatrix/pseuds/obstinatrix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For lexigent's prompt: "love is your master, for he masters you." In which there are vague d/s overtones, but mostly just Watson being a sap.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pulse

**Author's Note:**

> THIRD TIME LUCKY EH

On his knees, Sherlock Holmes makes a picture so beautiful that it pains me sometimes to know that I, and only I, will ever bear witness to it. There are those who think him homely, or at least unconventional, but to me he has always been an object of continual fascination, a creature whose curves and planes draw and redraw my attention just as much as the workings of that famous brain. I used to worry, once upon a time, about how Lestrade and his men must have thought of me: a grown man and a doctor no less, once a soldier and a respected physician, become a slave to a crazed detective and his opaque demands. I worried about what _Holmes_ thought of me. But that was before he came to me this way, bowed his head to the pressure of my hand on the nape of his neck, and I knew then, as now, that what exists between us is in perfect balance. In public, he is my commanding officer; in private, it is I who, seemingly, am master, but in truth, we are both of us slaves to the bond between us, this thing that knots our souls and drives us beyond the fringes of what society permits. 

I love him as I have never loved anyone, and I am not a man unaccustomed to intimacy. Holmes loves me, and only me. I think of this every time he touches me, and the knowledge humbles me to my very core. 

His eyes are grey. Readers of my casual chronicles know this, but I fear I have never done them proper justice, for fear of giving myself away entirely. Holmes kneels at my feet, his face upturned, and his eyes are like frost or sea-fret, like mist cooling on the surface of night-facing windows. The irises are circled in black, and his lashes sweep heavy against fine cheekbones upon which the last of his summer freckles can still be seen. I find one with my thumb and rub there, smiling, and he smiles back, turning his face just slightly in a way that exposes more of his long pale throat. 

"Watson," he says. His voice is rough, because he has taken my cock into his throat, and the physiological evidence makes me shiver, knowing how bodily I have left my mark upon him. He dampens his lips. "John." 

I stir myself to speak. "A moment," I tell him, moving to palm his jaw, and then his throat, closing my fingers carefully around the fragile column of it, making him murmur approval and close his eyes. "I needed to look at you." 

I mean to hold off a little longer, but the head of my prick is still nudged against his cheek and he knows me, after all, very intimately. He allows my direction, but when he turns his face, letting my slick crown drag against his lips, he knows very well what he is about. "You have looked," he says, imperious, and kisses me, deliberate and soft. 

He shall have his way, then. I had in mind perhaps to tease him awhile, but this is the second time I have made myself withdraw from the wet haven of his mouth and truly, I haven't the patience to tease myself further. I thumb at his lower lip, and he groans, opening at once for me, mouthing at the head of my prick until I push inside. 

He opens so easily for it; he always did, even when the very fact of another person's touch on his body was alien to him. I sheath myself in his mouth and he lifts his head just so, throat open and eyes closed, the expression on his face one of blissful relief. He is upright, stiff-backed, but he needs this, and needs it from me. My gut twists hotly as I palm the back of his skull, pulling him forward until I am inside him to the root. 

When I thrust into him, it is forceful almost at once, for there is no need to be gentle with him. He moans around me, hollowing his cheeks, and I bite my lip and fuck him faster, the muscles of his throat fluttering around the head of my cock. 

"Holmes," I say, "darling," endearments I only dare venture when his mouth is full, but he twitches and shivers, his hands still held neat behind his back, his posture so effortlessly perfect, even now. He is maddening, a contradiction in terms; he pushes the flat of his tongue against my shaft and I cry out, my fingers slipping into his hair and twisting there. The wet sound of my prick in his mouth is obscenely obvious now, his breath coming fast through his nose, and my peak is upon me almost before I feel it rising. At the last moment, I jerk him back by the hair, and he gasps at the hot-wax spatter of my spend across his cheek, his mouth, his eyelids. It clings to his lashes in little pearls, collects in the dip of his upper lip, and I tip back my head and shudder, closing my eyes, barely able to bear the sight he makes. 

"Come up here," I tell him, when I have found the breath, "and kiss me." 

He is in my lap almost before the words have left my mouth, and I taste myself in his mouth; I kiss his parted lips and feel the pounding of his heart against my own, our chests together and but one rhythm between.


End file.
